Perry Potter’s horse, that had shown unmistakable symptoms of disgust at the endless gallop he had been called upon to maintain, shied sharply away from the sound, stumbled from leg-weariness, and fell heavily; for the second time that night I had need to show my dexterity—­but, in this case, with Perry Potter’s stirrups swinging somewhere in the vicinity of my knees, the danger of getting caught was not so great.  I stood there in the dark loneliness of the silent hills and the howling wolf, and looked down at the brute with little pity and a good deal of resentment.  I applied my toe tentatively to his ribs, and he just grunted.  Frosty got down and led Spikes closer, and together we surveyed the heavily breathing, gray bulk in the sand at our feet.

“If he was the Yellow Peril, instead of one of your much-vaunted steeds,” I remarked tartly, “I could go at him with a wrench and have him in working order again in five minutes; as it is—­” I felt that the sentence was stronger uncompleted.

“As it is,” finished Frosty calmly, “you’ll just step up on Spikes and go on to Pochette’s.  It’s only about ten miles, now; Spikes is good for it, if you ease him on the hills now and then.  He isn’t the Yellow Peril, maybe, but he’s a good little horse, and he’ll sure take yuh through the best he knows.”

I don’t know why, but a lump came up in my throat at the tone of him.  I put out my hand and laid it on Spikes’ wet, sweat-roughened neck.  “Yes, he’s a good little horse, and I beg his pardon for what I said,” I owned, still with the ache just back of my palate.  “But he can’t carry us both, Frosty; I’ll just have to tinker up this old skate, and make him go on.”

“Yuh can’t do it; he’s reached his limit.  Yuh can’t expect a common cayuse like him to do more than eighty miles in one shift—­at the gait we’ve been traveling.  I’m surprised he’s held out so long.  Yuh take Spikes and go on; I’ll walk in.  Yuh know the way from here, and I can’t help yuh out any more than to let yuh have Spikes.  Go on—­it’s breaking day, and yuh haven’t got any too much time to waste.”

I looked at him, at Spikes standing wearily on three legs but with his ears perked gamily ahead, and down at the gray, worn-out horse of Perry Potter’s.  They have done what they could—­and not one seemed to regret the service.  I felt, at that moment, mighty small and unworthy, and tempted to reject the offer of the last ounce of endurance from either—­for which I was not as deserving as I should have liked to be.

“You worked all day, and you’ve ridden all night, and gone without a mouthful of supper for me,” I protested hotly.  “And now you want to walk ten beastly miles of sand and hills.  I won’t—­”

“Your dad cared enough to send for you—­” he began, but I would not let him finish.

“You’re right, Frosty,” and I wrung his hand.  “You’re the real thing, and I’d do as much for you, old pal.  I’ll make that Frenchman rub Spikes down for an hour, or I’ll kill him when I get back.”